


as one thinks of murder

by tokyonightskies



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Choking, Dirty Talk, F/M, Finger Sucking, Hand & Finger Kink, Handcuffs, Masturbation, One-Sided Attraction, Rough Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-11-14 23:04:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11218086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tokyonightskies/pseuds/tokyonightskies
Summary: But back at the museum, the rage was rolling off him in waves; the pace of his predatory gait quickened and the shots he fired frantic and fast and uncalculated.There’s something about his anger and the way he pressed his body against her, arm wound-tight around her waist, that keeps playing around in her mind. Widowmaker slides her hand up her sleeping shirt and slowly starts to rub her right hipbone, where Reaper’s body heat seems to linger, like an iron branded into her skin.It was almost like he would’ve turned violent on her, because the anger was there, simmering under the surface.Her heartrate’s still off, a ¾ beat too fast. She remembers his too-tense posture, his too-straight spine and his arm muscles straining under the tight kevlar of his uniform. Widowmaker slowly thumbs the band of her pajama bottoms, inches it down the crook of her thigh.





	as one thinks of murder

**Author's Note:**

> title inspired by the quote "I thought of your body, as one thinks of murder," by Anne Sexton.
> 
> -
> 
> Make me everything you want, never tell me no,  
>  (I’ll try)  
> Whisper you’re the one to fix it too, even if you won’t.  
> -fka twigs, papi pacify

One of the fluorescent tubes in the narrow corridor keeps flickering on and off; and the effect is much like a camera shutter going off repeatedly, once dark, once overexposed, bright.

Widowmaker’s escorted by two operatives to the recovery room, the sound of their brisk footsteps curtailed in the cramped space and their shadows split across the floor and the wall. Her stoic expression doesn’t betray her irritation over the botched mission.

In retrospect, trying to get the target with two high-profile Overwatch agents hot on their heels was an obvious mistake, but at the time, with Reaper as her partner, the risk seemed calculated, surmountable.

They come to a halt in front of a door with a biometric lock overhead. Widowmaker takes a step forward into the greenish glow of the slanted screen and looks up to the iris scanner. An image of her eyes, an ID number and an authorization code appear on the screen in real time, followed by a curt, loud beep and the soft hiss of the door opening.

She goes inside and the two escorts file into the recovery room shortly after. One of them takes the Widow’s Kiss and stows it in the weapon locker; the other takes her helmet from her, then takes her gauntlet and the spare venom mine she keeps strapped to her thigh. He first plugs the helmet into its charger on the shelf above her bunk, and puts the gauntlet and spare venom mine into a display cabinet, where on the bottom shelf several other mines lie scattered.  

When Widowmaker’s changed into her standard sleeping uniform, she settles down on the bunk, waiting stone-faced for them to monitor her pulse and blood pressure.

The white glare of the medical lamp overhead makes her squint and she looks off to the side when the operative with a light dent in his breather helmet takes off his gloves and presses his fingers to her tattooed wrist. She knows her heartbeat’s much too fast, but that can easily be chalked up to the adrenalin. The two operatives look at each other and nod and the one without a dent in his helmet slides the cuff of the digital monitor around her arm.

They silently register her ratings in a databank on a holographic tablet, shut off the harsh lights and exit the recovery room.

Widowmaker lies down on her side, staring at the dim, reddish glow of her helmet’s visors reflected on parts of her body. Her stomach clenches together when the images of the botched mission at the museum rush to the forefront of her mind again, but the failure isn’t the only thing drawing out all these emotions, and irritation isn’t the only thing she currently feels either. Widowmaker’s loath to admit – even to herself – that she’s _curious_ , more specifically, that _she’s_ _curious about Reaper._

Technically speaking, this mission wasn’t the first where they were out on the field together, but it was the first time they were partnered together, without a strike team under his direct command.

She props an arm underneath the pillow and draws her knees up to her chest, thinking back on their earlier assignments. It wasn’t hard to figure out why command started to put them on more and more missions together; as a sniper, she complimented the close quarter combat style Reaper employs. She provides suppressive fire and picks off the opponents in his blind spot. And after a trial run or two, they’ve gotten attuned to each other, absentmindedly keeping the other’s position on the field in the back of their minds.

_Mais_ , Widowmaker thinks, bringing a hand eyelevel and watching the bluish skin discolor under the reddish glow of the visors, _il était en colère contre les deux._

When Reaper takes command of a strike team, he shows the type of leadership that stems from both his own character and his years of experience, and in the field, he methodologically picks off his enemies, one by one.

But back at the museum, the rage was rolling off him in waves; the pace of his predatory gait quickened and the shots he fired frantic and fast and uncalculated.

There’s something about his anger and the way he pressed his body against her, arm wound-tight around her waist, that keeps playing around in her mind. Widowmaker slides her hand up her sleeping shirt and slowly starts to rub her right hipbone, where Reaper’s body heat seems to _linger_ , like an iron branded into her skin.

_It was almost like he would’ve turned violent on her_ , because _the anger was **there** , simmering under the surface._

Her heartrate’s still off, a ¾ beat too fast. She remembers his too-tense posture, his too-straight spine and his arm muscles straining under the tight kevlar of his uniform. Widowmaker slowly thumbs the band of her pajama bottoms, inches it down the crook of her thigh.

But she didn’t even get the chance to see what Reaper would’ve done in that small window of time between their narrow escape and the confirmation that their pick-up was underway. Talon responded to her distress signal quicker than she expected.

She knows she should _rest_ , but something needs to take **_this edge_** off, and she rolls onto her stomach, trapping her arm between her body and the mattress, her hand half-shoved into her panties.

Before Talon dispatched the coordinates of their pick-up point, there was a slight shift in the air, – _even now_ _in her bunk, under the dim glow of her helmet’s visors_ _Widowmaker is certain she didn’t imagine it –_ a sort of electric undercurrent. And Reaper was still standing _too close_ for comfort, his arm briefly winding tighter around her waist in automatism, a warning or a threat or a bit of both, too many stilted movements and too many serrated edges, as if his body was experiencing a glitch.

_Her fingers teasingly slide apart her labia._ Widowmaker could practically _taste_ the hostility and a part of her wanted to push him over the edge, live through the fight that would ensue and the violence he would try to inflict on her. _She rakes her teeth over her lower lip and toys the tip of her middle finger over her slit._

Reaper wouldn’t hold back, of that she’s sure. One little remark would tilt him over the edge and have him pouncing on her with the finesse of a big cat, all sleek muscle and sheer force. Widowmaker would have to think quick then, aim for the railing of the fire escape near the top of the opposite building to get away, to prevent him from slamming his body into hers.

Burrowing her face into the thin pillow, she subconsciously spreads her legs a bit wider and grasps the under-sheet when she imagines Reaper firmly grabbing her ankle in reflex and yanking her back down. The claw of her grappling hook colliding to the ground with a hollow clang a couple of feet in front of her.

_Non_ , she corrects, pressing the heel of her palm down on her clit, _he wouldn’t push me to the ground._ Her hips shallowly buck against the mattress as the thought of him seizing her mid-flight pops up in her mind.

When Widowmaker starts to struggle, Reaper would manhandle her against the wall, digging his claws into the meat of her ass until the back of her head bangs into the wall and her shoulders are lined up flush against the bricks, and he would hold her up _there_ , jack-knifed, and with him standing between her slightly-spread legs, pressing his full bodyweight against her, hip-to-hip. _Her cunt’s starting to drool slick_.

He’d maneuver her wrists above her head and tie them together tightly with the rope of her grappling hook. Jam the claw into the brick of the wall.

_Widowmaker squirms on the bunk, rubbing the bit of slick all over her labia and clit._  

Reaper would wrap one of those big fists of his around her exposed throat then, and force her to look directly into the bottomless, black sockets of his mask.

“Any other _clever_ remarks?” He’d prompt—and from that close, the sort of ghastly, gravelly quality of his voice would be that more effective, make her shiver involuntarily against his body.

The leather of his gauntlet’s coarse, rough on her cool skin, and if Reaper would put that little bit more pressure on the flat of her throat, Widowmaker would tense up completely, mouth wide open to gasp for breath she normally doesn’t need, nostrils flared, an unexpected spike in her heartrate— _and_ oh, _how long since she’d gotten **wet** over something? _

There were moments like these before where a mission left her jittery and she was looking for a way to fall asleep in the dark solitude of the recovery room. Every intimate moment with Gérard revoked a sense of discomfort within her body, like some small, insubordinate part of her – _Amélie Lacroix_ – refused to sully his memory. Widowmaker couldn’t bring herself to care at the time.

But the thought of Reaper leaning in close gets her _good._ Close enough she could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against her breasts. He’d hiss his words but a hairbreadth away from her still-open mouth with the same kind of vitriol as if he’d _spat_ on her face, “I didn’t think so, _Widow._ ”

She’d taunt him with her bare teeth, with a strangled sound somewhere between a laugh and a moan, with a haughty look that gets under his skin so much he’d want to _punch_ it off her face.

And when he chokes her harder in response, Widowmaker would fold her legs around his waist and grind her crotch against the buckle of his belt, the back of her head digging into the brick wall.

“Does shit like this get you _wet_?” Reaper would ask, smug and scathing, pushing his thumb and forefinger to the hinge of her jaw, forcing her to look up— _and she burrows her face into her pillow when she dips her middle finger into her pussy, knuckle-deep at first, then its full length._

He’d slowly slide the palm of his other hand over her folded tummy to her sternum and feel the shallow heaving of her chest as she scrambles for breath in faint gasps. Pull at the plunging neckline of her bodysuit to expose her right breast, then her left, showing that her nipples are _hard_ already. Reaper would push his hips up against her in sharp, measured thrusts, giving her half the friction she _wants_.

Widowmaker finger-fucks herself open roughly, to the thought of him easing up on her throat and hooking his index and middle finger around the corner of her mouth and slipping them inside. The tips of his claws a pinprick against the sensitive skin of her inner cheek. The taste of metal and leather blooming open on her tongue.

“You want me to _fuck_ you like this, huh? Against the wall like some back-alley _whore_?” It wouldn’t sound like a question, more like a blasé observation. “Want me to rip your suit apart and just _use you_ like a cumdump.”

_No,_ Reaper would try to sound disinterested, but the amusement would be there, in how he purrs certain words like _fuck_ and _whore_.

“Or how about I force you to the ground first and have you gag on my cock for a while? You seem to like having something _big_ in your mouth—” and he emphasizes his point by pushing his fingers deeper, making her convulse and cough, throat spasming.

Her heavy-lidded gaze would remain fixated on the part of the back of his hand that she could see, on the way his knuckles move when he teasingly drags his thick fingers out.

It would _hurt._ Her jaw would be wide-open, straining from the effort, and the urge to gag would make her eyes water. Reaper’s razor-sharp claws raking over the flat of her tongue and scuffing the roof of her mouth, shy of drawing blood, but the taste of metal would explode in her mouth anyway.

Thin strands of saliva connect his hand with her lower lip when he pulls out completely, and the steel tips of his claws shine wetly in the poor lighting, polished with her spit. _And what would it feel like to get fingered by those_ —a little bit like murder, she guesses and stifles a moan.

Her labored breaths are smothered by the thin pillow. Widowmaker grinds the heel of her palm against her clit and slides another finger up her sopping cunt. There’s a wet patch on the front of her panties that she keeps rubbing the back of her hand against.

Widowmaker wonders what Reaper’s cock looks like. Her grip on the under-sheet tightens briefly when she imagines a thick, dark uncut cock that she could choke on for _hours_. She can feel her fingernails dig into her palm through the fabric, a short-lived sting, and her exhale’s strangely hot, caught between the pillow and her face.

In her fantasy, she can fast-forward through the sequence of him letting her down and starting to undress: his belts with its shotgun cartridges thudding to the ground, the soft rustle of his coat, the way he would peel his tight under-suit from his muscular chest. Meanwhile she would sink down, the cord of her grappling hook loose around her wrists, knees slightly spread so she can tease a hand against her cunt.

“Who would’ve guessed you’re such an impatient little _cockslut?_ ” Reaper would comment wryly, towering over her, putting his gauntlets back on— _she wants him to wear them and scissors herself open, like she’s prepping her pussy for him._

It bothers Widowmaker that she doesn’t know what Reaper _looks like_ , can only imagine the sallow tan skin stretched over his abdominal muscles and the sickly-pale veins running through the patch of pubes, over the underside of his cock. His face… _she grinds her pussy against the inside of her wrist in frustration, smearing juices all over the soft skin there, over the bump of her pulsepoint_ … Right now, it’s easier to think of him with the mask on.

He wouldn’t care much for her comfort, now would he? Just grab her by the head and shove into her waiting mouth.

_Non_ , _c’est pas vrai…_ Reaper would stand right in front of her, with his under-suit bunched around the knees, cock in hand, head angled downwards to peer at her from behind the black gauze in his mask. Widowmaker would watch how he gives his dick a few curt tugs and look up at him expectantly, slowly raking her teeth over her bottom lip, make him tilt his head in that particular way of his.

“You really can’t wait to slobber all over my dick…Want it that badly, _huh?_ ” His remark would make her slouch forwards, bracing herself on her hands, and open her mouth wide.

Widowmaker doesn’t feel shame, but she _knows_ submission, lives it every day of her life. This is different, this is her _willingly_ submitting to him.

Her reward would be Reaper lifting her chin up and sliding his dick inside her mouth. He’d make her take him _inch by inch_ , push until his cockhead hits the back of her throat and she tenses up, trying to reign in her gag reflex, overtaken by his musky smell and the tickling sensation of his coarse, curly pubes tickling the button of her nose.

She would open her mouth even wider in automatism, gasping for breath, only for Reaper to yank on her ponytail and shove her face harder against his crotch.

“Through your nose,” Reaper would hiss, shoulders hunched convulsively, his huge hand now supporting the back of her head, letting up.

When he pulls out, the length of his dick would be coated in spit, traced back to her mouth in thick, translucent strands. His cockhead would rest on her abused bottom lip and she’d tease the tip of her tongue over the sensitive slit and the fold of his foreskin.

Reaper would drag his cock over one side of her face. Widowmaker swallows hard, unaffected by how slimy the saliva feels going down her throat, by how he smears spit and precum open on her cheek, by the draft on her exposed tits and the hard underground.

_All she can think of is having his cock in her mouth_ , and she shakily brings her hand from under her pillow, writhing under the sheets. Sticks two fingers in her mouth and sucks on them.

Fingers herself harder when she thinks about Reaper slapping her cheek with his cock a couple of times and sliding it back inside. He’d hold onto her helmet and simply _fuck_ into her mouth, fill her to the hilt and establish a violent rhythm. Completely pulling out and slamming back in. Thrusting so deeply his balls would slap violently against her chin.

His pace brutal, skirting the edges of pain and pleasure, keeping her constantly on the verge of gagging. Tears escape from the corners of her eyes and roll down over her cheeks.

She would concentrate on breathing through her nose, _just like Reaper told her_ , but the sounds he’d make would fog up her mind. _Dieu_ , she doesn’t care if he repeatedly dumps his cum in her like a cheap sex-toy, as long as she can listen to those curt, guttural grunts he makes, to his haggard panting and deep, needy moans.

Her movements get more frantic when she nears her orgasm, so she slows down, sinks her teeth into her fingers to quiet a low groan. Tries to ignore how her heartbeat hammers away between her ears, slowly but surely. Widowmaker wants to imagine Reaper cumming in her mouth.

Reaper would double over and clamp his palms over the retractable ends of her helmet, holding his cock into her mouth, balls-deep. His spunk would be squirted down her throat in long-stretched ribbons, hot and sticky-wet.

Lungs burning for the first time in years, Widowmaker would cough violently when he finally pulls his cock out, flaccid and coated in her drool, and with one palm flat on the concrete underground, dry-heave harshly. Spit and cum dribbling from the corners of her mouth.

But while she’s already on edge with this image in mind – _rocking her clit against her wrist while she wedges three fingers in her soppy cunt, a tight fit_ – it’s the thought of Reaper scooping up a mixture of drool and cum that drips down her chin and pushing it back in her mouth with his claw that makes her cum hard. Her legs are spasming, knees pressed together, hand clenched between her slick thighs; her toes are curled, her fingers ache from how hard she bit down on them and her eyes are screwed shut tight as she rides out her orgasm.

Widowmaker lethargically pulls her hand out of her soaked panties, rolls over onto her back and looks impassively at the imprint of the elastic band of her pajama bottoms in her blue skin, discolored a bruised purple in the reddish glow of the visors. Her fingertips are coated in her translucent, viscous slick, and when she spreads them, it looks as if they’re glued together.

She switches them out with the fingers she sucked into her mouth this entire time and licks them clean.

Once the high wears off, indifference washes over her and evens her breathing out to its regular, abnormally slow pace. Widowmaker watches the streaks of red light cutting through the dark ceiling for a minute or two and blinks owlishly; the lights aren’t solid red, but fading to a lighter color at the edges, blurring the further they stretch. She closes her eyes.

And then it’s deadly quiet in the recovery room again.

.

It’s crowded on the runway; several operatives are clearing out the docking area for departure and the fuel truck’s rolling back into the base’s depot. Under the harsh glare of the sun, the asphalt seems to be smoldering a blurry hot-molten white and Widowmaker squints her eyes against the brightness. She walks over to the drop ship with brisk strides, her endlessly-long ponytail whisking along with the sway of her hips, her rifle retracted and strapped against her back.

She recognizes the dark figure huddled on the far-off corner of the metal bench as Reaper and for the first time in a long while, she hesitates, frozen in the open gateway of the plane’s cargo area. Her shadow stretches onwards on the floor, striding towards Reaper but coming up too short.

Her trepidation fades away, swallowed up by the impassivity Talon instilled inside of her mind. Widowmaker silently sits down next to him, takes her sniper rifle off her back and places it between her feet, then straps herself in.

Reaper straightens his back and crosses his arms over his chest, not having bothered with a seatbelt. Not that he needs one in the first place, it’s not like he’s going to fall off the bench at take-off anyway. He cocks his head and gives her a once-over.

“Looks like we’re going to be working together again,” he comments, leaning back and blending into the darkness.

Widowmaker thinks back on that small window of time and everything that _could’ve_ been, and answers readily, “Let’s hope it goes better than that time at the museum.”

.


End file.
